


staring shadows in the eye

by taywen



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Assassin!Corvo, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Royal Protector!Daud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Six months ago, Daud would have thought the Raven a figure of myth – impossible, for one man to have pulled off the sheer volume of assassinations attributed to his name. After his own experience, however – watching in mute, helpless horror as his own body worked against him and killed Jessamine, then seeing a masked man with the Outsider’s mark on his hand briefly appear only to steal Emily away – he knows most, if not all, of the ridiculous feats attributed to the man were real.</i> </p><p>Or, that AU where Daud's the Royal Protector and Corvo's the assassin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [we're so close (to something better left unknown)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553994) by [taywen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen). 



> “I’ll make this part around the same length as the others,” I said when I was writing this and still intended it to be a part of _we’re so close (to something better left unknown)_
> 
> hahahahahaaa _aaaaaa_ -
> 
> fills [this](http://dishonored-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/446.html?thread=466878#cmt466878) prompt on the kinkmeme ~~except without the Corvo/Daud who even am I~~ ; title from "Fallen" by Imagine Dragons

Two months, give or take a few days. Daud’s visited all the Isles before, though never one after the other as he had on this latest trip. Even his time in Serkonos had been strained, when he usually enjoyed staying in his home country. By then, he had already expected the news the Duke gave him, having heard much the same from Tyvia and Morley.

The letters sit heavily in his pocket, gilded words that amounted to, at best, nothing more than a refusal to help and, at worst, thinly veiled threats to blockade.

Daud stands on the deck, out of the way of nearby sailors. His hands grip the railing tightly, the white of his knuckles the only indication of his disquiet. Even his eagerness to return home dims in the face of the news he brings. Had he the space in his cabin, he would pace about in a fruitless attempt to relieve the tension; but his cabin is too cramped to allow such movement. So he stands at the rail, staring at the smudge of Dunwall as it slowly looms closer.

“Nearly there, Lord Daud,” Captain Curnow says, joining him at the rail. “Another hour or so, according to the captain.”

Daud nods, but offers no further reply. Curnow was with him throughout the discussions with the other Isles’ rulers; he knows what news they bring. And even if he didn’t, Daud can hardly voice his concern where it could be overheard by the sailors.

“Two days early,” Curnow adds, with false levity.

“It’s something,” Daud says, turning away from the sea.

Curnow meets his gaze for a moment before looking back at the city. “It is.”

* * *

Daud waits with leashed impatience as the boat is prepared, his gaze roving between the seemingly slow movements of the men and Dunwall Tower. Most of his home is obscured by the waterlock or passing whaling ships, and he resists the urge to find another spot where he can get a better view. He will be there soon enough.

The atmosphere of the city is heavy; the deep breath before the plunge? Daud pushes the unwelcome thought away and looks about them instead. He’d noticed it as they neared Dunwall, but the unusual emptiness of the Wrenhaven had only served to drive the point home: the ships were avoiding the city. He’d seen only whaling vessels and navy ships.

Finally, they’re away. Daud pays the chatter of Curnow and his underling little mind. They’re so close that telling the driver to go faster would be pointless, but Daud finds these delays now that he’s so near tedious in the extreme.

He approves of the waterlock as a matter of security – it’s one of the few matters upon which he and Burrows can agree – especially given the rise of the plague, but it would be faster if the docks remained.

Daud makes an absent sound of agreement when Curnow remarks that the Empress is likely waiting for him. Were it anyone else, Daud would suspect a double meaning, but Curnow is careful not to cast aspersions of that sort.

He doesn’t recognize the guards stationed on either side of the waterlock’s entrance, though they greet him with the same deference that he has come to expect. Daud doesn’t know every guard, of course, but he recognizes most of the ones who work at the Tower by face if not by name. Their impassive features are utterly unfamiliar to him.

None of his own men in the Watch are waiting to greet him, either.

“Daud! You’re back!” Emily cries, her clear voice ringing out across the otherwise quiet courtyard as she runs towards him.

Daud musters a smile and sweeps her into his arms, forgetting his concerns for a moment. He is, after all, two days early; his men wouldn’t know to expect him, and it isn’t as if he knows _every_ guardsman.

“I missed you,” Daud says, not caring about the listening guards. He tightens his arms around her for a moment. “Did you miss me?” he asks, setting Emily back on her feet reluctantly.

She tilts her head and grins up at him; Daud finds his smile sliding into something more genuine in response. “Of course I did!” She laces their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and starts to lead him towards the Tower proper. “Listen, Mother’s busy meeting with that nasty old Spymaster. Will you play hide and seek with me? Please?” She drags the last word out beseechingly.

Daud pretends to think about it. “I suppose I have time for a round or two,” he says.

Emily grins again. “Great!” Her hand slips out of his grip as she runs towards the ground level, leaving him to follow at a more leisurely pace. Has she grown taller? Daud watches her disappear around the corner, trying to remember.

“Who’s it?” Daud asks, joining her just beyond the shadow of the walkway.

“I guess I’ll be it,” Emily says. “Let’s see if you’re still good at this. OK, I’m going to count to ten!” She turns away from him and starts counting aloud.

Daud’s gaze sweeps the open area. It doesn’t offer many hiding places, but he hurries over to the lone tree on nearly-silent feet and crouches behind it gamely. When he does consent to play the game with her, it’s usually indoors; though, he allows, that only really offers more hiding spots for Emily, since Daud is too big for most of them.

“-ten! Ready or not!” Emily finishes.

Daud shifts, peering cautiously around the edge of the trunk to see Emily looking around curiously. She finds a few likely spots, but soon gives up; Daud emerges the moment she says, “All right! You win, Daud.”

“Your turn?” he offers, a bit surprised when Emily shakes her head. She prefers hiding to seeking.

“No, we should go see Mother now,” she says decisively, and leads him back to the upper level once more.

Daud exchanges cursory greetings with Sokolov, ignoring Campbell’s barbs with the ease of long practice. He and the High Overseer have never gotten along, and while he doesn’t mind Sokolov’s company – the two have a shared distaste for the aristocracy – he’s all too eager to slip past the pair in favour of speaking with Jessamine.

He meets Burrows’ nervous look with a flat stare of his own, but most of his attention is on Jessamine.

She looks stressed. The set of her mouth is tight, her posture rigid. Her face softens when she sees him, and Daud can’t quite find the words to tell her that he has only bad news. He hands her the letter and steps back as she scans its contents.

Emily hovers nearby, a worried look on her face. She must have some idea of the severity of the plague, though Jessamine tries to shield her from it.

Daud clasps his hands behind his back and waits.

What happens next is a confusing jumble of motion and horror – one moment, he’s watching Jessamine and Emily, the next he’s lurching towards Jessamine with his blade out. He tries to stop, but it’s as if some outside force controls his body. His throat constricts, his cries of warning caught before they can reach his tongue; his fingers tighten around the familiar hilt of his blade without his consent. His vision swims, but he sees Jessamine’s shocked face, feels the shuddering exhale of her breath against his cheek, hears Emily’s scream-

Daud throws himself back, his left hand rising instinctively to his mouth as the meagre contents of his stomach threaten to make a reappearance. He staggers, his knees on the verge of giving out, torn between lurching towards Jessamine to help her (though he knows, in a detached part of his mind, that there is no helping her; his blade found its mark, his hand was steady and sure) and turning away from the nightmarish scene before him.

He barely notices the impact of his knees against the stone floor, his bloody blade falling unheeded through nerveless fingers. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up in time to see a masked man pull Emily to him with a hand over her mouth.

“N-” Daud croaks, reaching.

The man raises his other hand, the tattoo there flaring gold before he and Emily disappear, leaving Daud staring, fingers curling uselessly, at the space where they had been for a single, frozen moment.

Daud drags himself towards Jessamine, cradling her as gently as he can with one hand, the other pressed uselessly against the wound; there’s no staunching the flow of blood, but he can’t focus on anything else.

“Daud,” she says, her voice ragged. Her eyes are wide with fear, and Daud swallows back bile again. “This wasn’t- your fault-”

Daud squeezes his eyes shut for a brief second before forcing them open again. “I’m sorry,” he says, helplessly. “I’m s-”

“Find Emily,” Jessamine says, her words quieting with each laboured breath. “You’re the only one- Daud-”

Burrows and Campbell come, then, with more guards that Daud doesn’t recognize. Daud barely hears the accusations that Burrows hurls at him, his mind replaying the moment his blade pierced Jessamine’s heart over and over. He can still feel the slight resistance before it slipped in, gliding between her ribs, and his hands are red when he looks down at them.

The darkness that comes with the sharp blow to the back of his head is welcome.

* * *

Daud has had six months to relive the events of that day; he still sees them every time he close his eyes, and the images haunt his dreams. He has had time to consider the various motives and causes: why would anyone want to murder Jessamine? The Morley Insurrection was over, the western Isle subdued; none of the others had any reason to want Jessamine dead, as far as Daud was aware, though if anything recent events had proven that plenty went on that he was unaware of.

More likely, the culprit was someone within Gristol, probably a citizen of Dunwall itself. That assassin’s death mask was one that stared out of numerous wanted posters across the city; Daud doesn’t imagine that his services came cheaply. A noble, then, or someone similarly influential and affluent. Perhaps even a coalition of such individuals. He could name two likely suspects off the top of his head, and their presence at his latest session with the torturer only cemented his opinion.

The first was Campbell: Why was the man having his portrait painted at the Tower, of all places? The Wrenhaven was visible from any number of locations in Dunwall, including the Office at Holger Square; for the leader of a religion dedicated to the every man, having an official portrait set in the imperial seat made- no sense.

Even had he not shown up with Burrows to alternately gloat and exhort Daud to sign the confession, Daud would have known he was involved in whatever conspiracy the former Spymaster had cooked up. There had to be other factors involved, though - neither of them were fighters, and someone had eliminated most (if not all) of the men Daud had in the Watch.

Had the masked assassin been behind that, too? That mask was distinctive enough that the assassin could only have been the Raven - a notorious murderer responsible for many, many deaths. Daud had dismissed the claims as a number inflated by people blaming the mysterious masked man to prevent the Watch from looking too closely into a suspicious death, but given the mark on his hand, Daud isn’t so sure now.

An agent of the Outsider with occult powers could have easily killed that many. He had already proven that he could control another’s body, and disappear at will. Those abilities must be invaluable for an assassin.

On that note, were _all_ of his agents dead? None of them had reached out to him in prison; there were some, though, that he couldn’t imagine dying. Billie, for one; she was smart enough to go to ground if things went south, and most of the other operatives in the network Daud had painstakingly amassed during his time as Royal Protector weren’t in public positions.

The downside of that meant that none of them were in a position to help him; the vast majority of his men had been working class or on the other side of the law – petty criminals, mostly.

Perhaps they believed what Burrows claimed: that Daud had killed the Empress. It wasn’t untrue. It was his hands and his blade that had ended her life, even if Daud hadn’t intended to do it, would never have even considered it.

He still refuses to sign the confession, having reached the conclusion that Burrows was behind the assassin after he regained consciousness in Coldridge, and he’s been trying to figure out a way to escape and find Emily ever since.

He hasn’t had much luck. His execution is scheduled for tomorrow, and he’s no closer to escaping the confines of the prison than he was the day he first got here.

“You should eat up, Daud,” the shift officer says, startling Daud from his dark thoughts. He glances at the man, but his face is obscured by the light behind him. “These are from a friend.”

Daud narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t find the words to demand an explanation; when the officer’s footsteps have faded, he approaches the tray cautiously. An entire half loaf of bread; in honour of his final meal, perhaps? Daud’s lip curls, but he tears off a hunk of the hard, stale stuff anyway and chews it as he examines the rest of the tray’s contents.

He pauses mid-bite when he sees the key, then snatches it up quickly, ignoring the bite of pain as its edges dig into his palm. It barely registers compared to the lingering wounds from the torturer’s tender ministrations, and he has more important things to focus on. He scans the letter swiftly, food forgotten.

His disbelief begins to abate after he reads the note for a third time. It seems like a trick- but when he looks past the bars, he can see the abandoned sword lying on the desk across from his cell, and the key remains solid in his hand.

He wonders who wrote the note. His men all had indirect means of getting messages to him, and none of the codes they used are evident in this simple letter. He scans it a final time, then tears it into pieces.

The plan outlined in the note is fairly over the top – blasting a hole through the prison’s outer doors, really – but at this point Daud doesn’t have a lot of options.

If it makes the damn Regent’s job harder and manages to get him out of the imminent execution, how can he refuse?

* * *

“There you are, old man,” a familiar voice says as Daud hurries down the branching tunnels of the sewers beyond Coldridge Prison.

He nearly takes Billie’s head off, lashing out instinctively; his blade jars against hers, before he recognizes her.

“Billie,” he says, too wrung out from his escape from Coldridge to be embarrassed over the raw tone of his voice, his arm dropping to his side.

Billie’s cocky grin falters for a moment, then rallies. “So you remember my name. That’s good. Our ride’s waiting just beyond.” She jerks her head in the direction he’d been going.

“The ‘friend’ who smuggled me a key?” Daud asks, recalling the note that had accompanied the key to his cell.

“An associate of that friend,” Billie says. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Daud follows her to the waiting boat, warily eyeing the boatman – Samuel – before climbing aboard the small vessel.

A thousand questions want to be asked, but Daud is very much aware of Samuel’s presence. The older man doesn’t seem like a threat, but Daud isn’t inclined to trust anyone at this point, even if they’re helping him escape from prison.

Samuel makes small talk about the Loyalists, the current state of the city, an “Admiral Havelock” – Daud’s memory supplies a massive man, a decade or so older than Daud himself; efficient, competent, not an officer who got commissioned on his name – and a “Lord Pendleton”.

“Treavor, the youngest,” Samuel clarifies when Daud looks at him sharply.

Billie shrugs when Daud catches her eye after Samuel’s back is turned.

They arrive at the Hound Pits, of all places, without a problem. Billie and Daud go ahead while Samuel finishes docking the boat.

“Is there anyone else?” Daud asks Billie as they ascend the steps into the pub’s backyard.

“Thomas works for the Loyalists. You’ll see him soon, I’m sure. The others’ve scattered, for the most part. Someone’s been killing them off.”

Daud looks at her sharply. “Who?”

“Don’t know.” There’s something off about Billie, though; a strange note to her voice, something about the look on her face-? Daud can’t read her like he used to.

Or he’s just paranoid. Billie is loyal. All of the people Daud’s painstakingly gathered over the years are. He pushes his doubts aside. “Have you found where they’re keeping Emily?”

“The rest of us are looking into it,” Billie says. “Should we step up our efforts?”

Daud nods. “I want her found. And if we can do it without them…” He tilts his head towards the pub meaningfully.

“I can arrange it while you speak with the Admiral and His Lordship,” Billie says, her usual distaste for the nobility thinly veiled in her emphasis of Pendleton’s title. She doesn’t sound much warmer about Havelock, either.

Promising.

“We’ll talk after,” Daud says, and grabs her arm when she makes to walk away. “Billie.”

“Yes,” she says. “After you’re done with them.” She shrugs off his grip as if it’s nothing, then, and disappears through a gate between the workshop and the pub proper.

* * *

Havelock and Pendleton all but talk over him, intent on assuring him of their loyalty to the cause and whatever else. Daud allows it, if only because he’s too tired to assert himself. Better to get a feel for his so-called allies first anyway.

He goes to visit Piero afterward, at Havelock’s suggestion, and finds Thomas waiting with the inventor. The Loyalists took him on because he was Daud’s associate, ostensibly in the capacity of a scavenger; if the stock of scavenged products in the workshop are any indication, he does all right.

After Piero gives him a modified industrial mask to hide his identity and some additional ammunition for his crossbow, Thomas follows Daud to his attic room.

Thomas reports much the same as Billie: no sign of Emily, someone’s picking off Daud’s men, Dunwall’s suffering under Burrows’ rule and the unrelenting plague.

Daud sits on the edge of his bed and tries not to let his unease show. He curls and uncurls his fists, restless despite the exhaustion weighing upon him.

Thomas hovers nearby; he’s much less practiced at hiding his worry than Billie.

“Your impression of the Loyalists?” Daud asks at length.

“Sincere,” Thomas says promptly. A pause, then he adds, “The power and influence to come with returning Lady Emily to the throne is a good incentive for it.”

Daud scrubs a hand over his face. He’d be suspicious of someone acting entirely out of altruism, but it would be- simpler. Impossible, in a place like Dunwall, but it’s a nice thought all the same.

“That will be all, Thomas.”

“Sir. I’ll let you get your rest.” Thomas steps smartly, exiting the room before Daud can fix him with a glare.

He falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, but he wakes up what feels like a moment later.

Disoriented, he looks around in confusion until he recognizes his room above the Hound Pits.

But something is subtly wrong. Daud’s on his feet in an instant, fumbling for a blade that isn’t there. Light spills past the doorway, altogether too blue to be natural. He looks around warily for some kind of weapon, but the room is bare.

He walks out and stops, staring in disbelief at the vast emptiness spread around him. He can see vague shapes in the distance, too far to make out the details much less reach from here. He seems to be standing on the only solid ground nearby; this imperfect recreation of the attic drops off abruptly into nothing. A spiralling set of stairs leads up to another level of rock.

Daud can't tell what awaits him from this angle, and after a few moments of trying to wake himself from this absurd dream, he gives up and starts up the stairs. His footsteps ring loudly on the metal, echoing strangely in the void. Is this _the Void_? The thought gives him pause, but he shakes his head and continues: there really isn’t anywhere else for him to go.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he finds himself on a bare spit of rock, devoid of anything, no paths leading away or-

A young man wreathed in darkness, with equally black eyes, appears before him.

“Daud,” the Outsider says, “my friend.” He smiles at Daud’s visceral, silent rejection of the epithet; the expression is too wide to be natural.

“We could be great friends,” the Outsider says, then adds, delicately, “or not. It depends upon you, naturally. I give you my mark, but what you make of this gift is your own choice.” He gestures, the only warning Daud gets before _pain_ flares up his arm.

Daud bites back a groan, watching as a familiar mark – the same one that the assassin had had, in the exact same place – burns itself into the back of his hand. The pain disappears as swiftly as it came, and when Daud drags the pads of his fingers over the mark, it sits flush to his skin, like a tattoo.

“Choose wisely,” the Outsider says. Another gesture, and a doorway that Daud instinctively recognizes as a portal back to his room in the Hound Pits and consciousness appears beside him. “Come find me, or…” The Outsider disappears.

When Daud’s vision clears, he finds himself standing on the gazebo, Jessamine’s corpse lying next to him. Daud jerks away, stumbling back a step – and off the edge entirely.

“Fuck,” he says as he falls rapidly away from the floating gazebo, into empty space.

He grunts when he lands on the gazebo again, somehow. The portal back to his room is gone, but Jessamine’s body remains. Daud tears his gaze away and sees a small note lying nearby.

_YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER_

Daud snarls and crumples the scrap of paper in his fist.

A series of floating scenes leads away from the gazebo, too far to reach by jumping. He looks – glares, really – at the mark on his hand, then the nearest floating rock.

The mark warms, glowing like a flame, and Daud lands on the rock a moment later. He follows the obvious path, past such scenes as the now-dilapidated Chamber of Commerce, Burrows at his war table and a pair of armoured men on stilts that can only be Sokolov’s tallboy initiative put into practice attacking some plague victims, until the Outsider reappears.

“I have one more gift for you,” the deity says, as if branding his sigil onto the back of Daud’s hand had been an offer that Daud had gratefully accepted rather than the forced marking that it truly was.

 _I refuse to play your games, you black-eyed bastard_ , Daud thinks viciously, with all the anger and hatred that he’s nursed for six months.

Those dark eyes widen in surprise, and a moment later Daud wakes up in his room in the Hound Pits. His hand aches, and when he fumbles the lamp on, he sees the mark.

But the room is as it should be, and it’s still dark outside. Daud permits himself to close his eyes for a moment, then forces his body to its feet and goes in search of a serviceable pair of gloves. At least it’s late enough that none of the pub’s other inhabitants will notice his strange activities.


	2. Chapter 2

While some of the Loyalists must notice the dark leather gloves that Daud wears the next day, none of them remark upon it. Wallace stares suspiciously, but Daud looks back unflinchingly and the manservant decides not to make an issue of it. If Pendleton recognizes the gloves – filched from his trunk as he slept, a feat of stealth that was almost as stressful as Daud’s escape from Coldridge – he gives no sign.

Billie raises an eyebrow and makes some sardonic comment that Daud brushes off, saying it’s to keep his hands warm. He thinks her gaze lingers on him, after, but it must be his own hyperawareness turning the scrutiny into something more sinister. She probably just wonders why he’d start wearing gloves now, when he never has before.

On the way to the dock, a young woman that Daud doesn’t recognize – probably not one of the servants, though he was exhausted the day before and could be wrong – stops him before he descends the steps. She introduces herself as Callista Curnow- Captain Curnow’s niece, and Daud supposes he can see the resemblance between them now. He promises to try to save her uncle if he can, then continues to meet Samuel.

What he told Billie isn’t untrue: Daud’s glad for the gloves not only because they hide the damning mark on his hand, but because they keep his fingers warm as well. He feels like he hasn’t been warm in six months, far too frequent brushes with the Torturer’s brand aside. The breeze over the river is cool but the comforting weight of his uniform coat, as well as the hood attached to the industrial mask keep the worst of the cold from him.

The mask keeps the stench of Dunwall away too; he’d thought that the stink in Coldridge stemmed from the prison itself – and then, scurrying through the sewers, had attributed it to the function of his escape route. But the air around the pub is nearly as foul – heavy in the throat, mingled with smoke and blood and the fetid water of the Wrenhaven.

There are other, even more obvious signs of Dunwall’s decay that Daud cannot ignore. Like the rats that roam confidently, daring to sniff curiously at boots even in small numbers, until a swift kick sends them scurrying; or the shrouded, bloodstained corpses abandoned in the streets and hidden in forgotten corners of empty buildings; or the towering plague barriers quarantining the infected districts.

Everything is consistent with the reports Billie and Thomas gave him, of course; but seeing the physical signs of Dunwall’s decline is still shocking. Daud isn’t a squeamish man by any means, has killed more than his fair share of men (even before he all but slaughtered his way out of Coldridge) and it still gives him pause. Dunwall had always lacked the light, carefree atmosphere of Karnaca or the sleepy, quaint feel of his long ago hometown – but the heaviness that has settled over Gristol’s capital now sets Daud’s nerves on edge more than ever.

He listens with half an ear as Samuel describes the Distillery District. Most of his attention is focused on the city passing on either side of the boat – it is too dark, even for the late hour. Whole areas are completely dark, the buildings little more than a misshapen mass in the pale light of the moon. Quarantined in an attempt to stem the tide of the plague, surely.

Daud had had little cause to visit the Distillery District, and then only with Jessamine, to attend service at the Office of the High Overseer. He glances at Samuel when the boatman mentions Slackjaw and Granny Rags, two names that he recognizes by reputation: one a successful gang leader and the other a supposed witch. Her presence in the same district as the Abbey would be ironic, but Daud can only assume it’s a further sign of the Abbey’s corruption.

He mutters his thanks to Samuel when they make land and starts towards the bridge.

Travelling directly up John Clavering Boulevard is out of the question. Daud eyes the wall of light from his hiding spot, then sets off for the nearest side street: Endoria, according to the sign.

Daud flinches violently when someone appears at his side out the shadows by the Bitterleaf Almshouse, but Thomas quickly raises his hands in a non-threatening gesture before Daud can attack him.

“Just me, sir. I asked Billie to mention that I’d meet you here,” Thomas says quietly.

“Maybe it slipped her mind,” Daud says, frowning.

“Maybe,” Thomas agrees. “The Loyalists only informed Billie that Campbell was your first target this morning, so I haven’t had much time to amass much information about what awaits you. Would you like to hear it?”

Daud nods as he scans the length of the street. Farther back, on Clavering, an officer supervises the disposal of plague victims; other lower guards patrol the street by the wall of light, little more than silhouettes against the bright flickering of Sokolov’s device.

“The City Watch controls Clavering, but the gangs and other people living on the fringes make use of the side streets. There are various underpasses beneath the main thoroughfare that you can use to avoid the checkpoints. Aside from the Watch, another significant group operating in the Distillery District is the Bottle Street gang, under-”

“-Slackjaw,” Daud says. “Samuel mentioned as much. There can’t be much to do for them at this hour – the district seems deserted.”

Thomas nods. “Just so. The curfew keeps the law-abiding citizens inside, and the entrances to their homes are guarded by the City Watch. Though- there have been increased skirmishes between Bottle Street and the City Watch, I understand. Escalating violence, establishing the gang’s control over the side streets. But some of the guards also deal with Slackjaw for doses of bootleg elixir.”

“Is the elixir in such short supply?” Daud asks.

“Unfortunately. The Regent demands that Sokolov devote his time between researching a cure for the plague and increased innovation on his security devices.”

Daud grits his teeth. Damn Burrows.

“I’ve been distributing Piero’s remedy to the men,” Thomas adds, “and it seems to be effective enough.”

“Good,” Daud says. “Is there anything else-?”

“Yes, of course. I witnessed Watch Captain Geoff Curnow and a few lower guards passing through this checkpoint about half an hour ago. It seems his visit with Campbell continues as planned. Unfortunately, the Offices of the High Overseer remain impenetrable, but Rinaldo mentioned that Martin was still in the stocks when he passed through Holger earlier today. Martin should have more information.”

“Is he the strategist behind my brilliant escape plan?” Daud asks, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Mm. Blasting the main gates of Coldridge open wasn’t the most elegant solution, but no one could think of anything better, or so Billie told me,” Thomas says.

“How did you meet up with the Loyalists?” Daud asks, remembering the question that had plagued him since arriving at the Hound Pits. This could be the only opportunity to speak with one of his subordinates in complete privacy he’ll get for a while. “Some people must have known about my- network of informants,” Daud says delicately, “but I wouldn’t have expected any of them to be aware of it. And you’re hardly a known member of it.”

The unofficial head of Daud’s network had been Rulfio, an officer in the Watch. The man was probably dead, along with who knew how many others – most, if not all, of the people he’d had in the Watch, probably. Thomas and Billie hadn’t told him the extent of the damage, and he’s almost afraid to ask.

“Billie brought the group to my attention,” Thomas says. “From what I understood, she convinced them to let her join by leveraging your infamous distrust of- well, everyone. That’s why she went with Samuel to pick you up. And that’s also why the Loyalists took me on.”

Daud frowns, turning this new information over in his mind. Billie and Thomas ran in the same circles, so to speak – why would she have been aware of the Loyalists and not Thomas? Or was she just the first to notice? She always had been particularly good at uncovering secrets.

A commotion at the end of the road catches his attention, pots and other junk clattering to the dirty cobblestones as a slender old woman tosses them off a second floor balcony.

“Ah, that would be Granny Rags,” Thomas says. “Beyond the usual rumours that surround people like her, I have nothing to go on. She’s blind and people think she’s a witch.” He shrugs when Daud looks at him.

Well, Daud can handle one old woman, if it comes to that. “I’ll get going, then.”

“Should I accompany you?” Thomas asks. He winces when Daud glares at him. “I got Piero to make me a spare mask, if you’re worried about my identity being revealed,” he adds hopefully.

“I can handle myself,” Daud says, annoyed. For whatever reason, since he woke up with the Outsider’s mark, the pain of his wounds seems to have receded.

“Of course you can,” Thomas says immediately. “But- I’ll go wait with Samuel,” he sighs, when Daud just stares him down. “Good luck, sir.”

Daud waits for him to slip down to the docks, then starts up Endoria again.

“Oh, it’s you,” Granny Rags says when he creeps near, leaning on the rail to peer down at him. Daud twitches when he sees her eyes are completely white – if she hadn’t seen him coming, then how-? He was careful to keep his steps silent. “The new one. Well, come in, come in! Granny has a gift for you.” She bustles into the building without waiting for a reply.

Daud could kill her, easy; but there’s something subtly unnerving about her, besides the blank stare. Perhaps she knows about the mark?

He transverses up to the balcony and follows her into the apartment.

“Here,” she says, pressing a pale object into his hand. “A pretty charm. Not what the black-eyed boy _would_ have given you, not nearly so precious, no. But this is an auspicious occasion and it should be marked all the same!” She wanders out into the hall, muttering vaguely.

The bone charm seems to hum in his grip, filling Daud with greater vigour; the lingering pain of his wounds seems even weaker. He tucks it into his coat and follows her downstairs in time to hear someone banging on the front door.

Dealing with the gang members can’t hurt; maybe the witch will be more inclined to answering his questions if he does as she asks.

A few minutes later, the Bottle Street thugs are passed out in a heap in front of the witch’s door. Daud wonders if he should move them, in case a swarm of rats descends or Granny Rags decides to use them for some kind of ritual – but really, the only reason they’re alive is because he wanted to check the effectiveness of Piero’s sleep toxin. It’s not bad.

He accepts the thing she presses into his hand absently – it's some kind of rune cobbled from bone and leather, inscribed with the Outsider’s mark. He flinches in surprise when it simply- disintegrates, the fine pale dust blowing away in the wind whipping down the street.

Knowledge unspools in his head, how to activate his new power – void gaze.

“Those nasty Bottle Street boys,” Granny Rags mutters, stalking back into the darkened apartment. “Come, come, dearie. Granny has another birthday gift for you, if you help me take care of those horrible children.”

He follows her back inside, trying the new ability out. Another rune blooms into sight to his left. Daud's hand throbs when he turns to look.

“Do those runes enhance my abilities?” Daud asks.

“Yes! If you collect enough birthday presents you can give them to the beautiful black-eyed boy and he’ll give _you_ something even better in return,” the witch agrees.

Daud makes a noncommittal sound. Finding more of them might be useful; there’s another one further up Clavering, too far for him to make out from this distance, and some other items that make his mark throb. Charms, perhaps.

“If you see him, tell him Granny is doing her part,” the witch adds, wrapping bony fingers around his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Granny's doing her part.”

“I will,” Daud says. He doesn’t intend to see the Outsider again, if he can avoid it.

“Good.” She releases him, and turns away, heading into the main room.

Daud takes a surreptitious step back, prepared to run if necessary. She’s deceptively strong, and if she has the same abilities as Daud does – more, probably, if she’s so knowledgeable about the runes, and Daud knows Jessamine's assassin had at least the power to somehow possess him, in addition to the blink ability - then she's probably a serious threat.

“Now, about those Bottle Street children- Someone needs to teach them a _lesson_ ,” Granny Rags says, prowling over to a rickety table. She paws through the garbage strewn atop it. “My old doctor, you remember him, don’t you? Dr. Galvani. He’s looking into that plague. There must be- _specimens_. Be a dear, take one and drop it in the Bottle Street gang’s elixir still.”

Daud stares at her, but she remains oblivious, tossing aside tattered books and scraps of paper; a bent spoon clatters onto the rubble-strewn floor, dispersing a few inquisitive rats.

“I’m not going to poison their still,” Daud says.

She turns those blank, milky eyes on him. He resists the urge to fidget under that sightless scrutiny, unable to shake the feeling that she can somehow _see_ him. She must be blind, surely.

“No one has any _manners_ these days,” she mutters, snatching a tarnished silver knife off the table. Daud tenses up, but she stalks past him. “How many times do I have tell you that the knives go on the _left_?”

Daud kicks at a rat sniffing at his boot and follows her down the hall, his gaze trained on the knife the whole time. She only dumps it in a large tub under the stairs, then starts rummaging around in the garbage there.

“My little birdies are hungry,” she coos, pulling out a lump of- something vaguely organic. Daud doesn’t look too closely, and steps aside to let her sweep back past him, returning to the front room.

There’s a closed door at the end of the hall; the rune must be beyond, glowing steadily when he uses his void gaze again. He can hear Granny Rags rambling about her “black-eyed groom” through the thin wall. After a moment’s deliberation, he tries the door and, when it opens, steps through into a back alley.

Odd- he hadn’t seen its exit on Endoria Street-

It’s a dead end, the high walls of the surrounding buildings hemming it in on all sides. A shrine perches haphazardly on the rock, a rune hissing faintly atop the makeshift altar.

Daud grabs it, meaning to stuff it in his pocket, but the moment he touches it time seems to slow.

“Be careful, Daud,” the Outsider says, fading into existence from the shadows. “They call her Granny Rags. You wouldn’t recognize her real name-”

Daud wrenches himself away from the spectacle, furious, and shoves the weathered bone into his coat. He hurries away from the shrine, freezing when he sees Granny Rags waiting for him around the corner.

“No manners,” she repeats, eyes narrowed.

“Poisoning people is hardly good manners either,” Daud tells her, and transverses away before she can reply. He stops for breath atop the exposed pipes across the street, watching both sets of doors for any sign of pursuit. When none seems forthcoming, he straightens from his crouch and sets off for Holger Square.

* * *

Slipping past the patrolling guards isn’t _easy_ , but with the powers granted by the mark and Daud’s own abilities, he only has to kill a pair of gang members in an alley parallel to Clavering. He’ll have to come back this way after he kills Campbell, after all; no sense in having a guard’s corpse found by one of his fellows and putting the whole area on alert.

He can’t forget the way Samuel, and even Billie, had looked at his bloody blade after he emerged from the sewers either. Most of those guards were assigned to Coldridge, and made Daud’s time away from the Torturer’s chair hell; but, though these guards may be corrupt, Daud decides that he’ll spare those he can.

Holger Square is nearly deserted when he slips inside. He thinks it _is_ for a moment, before he hears someone taunting another; the angle of the floodlights and the rain obscure his visibility to the extent that he doesn’t recognize the Overseer’s silhouette immediately.

Daud listens to the jeering with half an ear, cautiously creeping closer. His steps are muffled beneath the falling of the rain, but he’s careful to move quietly all the same.

“- _Martin_ ,” sneers the Overseer, and Daud’s gaze goes to the figure in the stocks. He’d initially assumed they were a heretic- but, no, despite the uncovered face, the man is in an Overseer uniform. Apparently Rinaldo’s information was good.

Daud chokes the Overseer out and leaves him where he falls.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Martin drawls as Daud ascends the steps leading to the monument and the stocks at its feet.

Under other circumstances, Daud might have been inclined to banter back. “What can you tell me about what’s waiting inside?” he asks instead, kicking the lever open.

Martin grunts, his hands catching himself before he can fall completely. He stands shakily, then stretches with a groan. “Sorry. It’s been days since I could stand up straight,” Martin says, rubbing at his neck with a grimace. “Campbell should be in his office, or one of the meeting rooms. Did you know that he was meeting with Captain Curnow tonight?”

Daud nods. “Callista said as much.” No need to mention Thomas’ presence if he doesn’t need to.

Martin’s lips quirk into something like a smile, though the expression does not reach his eyes. “Lovely woman, Callista. At any rate, her uncle arrived less than an hour ago, along with a pair of lower guards. And there’s the Overseers stationed here regularly, of course. I don’t imagine Campbell himself will be much of a challenge for a man of your talents; he doesn’t bother keeping up with training.”

Daud nods again, circling around the monument to gaze through the metal fence at the Offices of the High Overseer. He glances back over when Martin speaks again.

“And when you kill Campbell, search his body. He carries a book on his person at all times, with details of- various matters,” Martin says, smirking as he voices the last part. More soberly, he continues, “It should contain Lady Emily’s whereabouts, among other things.”

“Understood,” Daud says, when it becomes obvious that Martin expects some kind of response.

“I’ll make my own way back to the Hound Pits,” Martin says. “I’ll have Samuel pick you up from the backyard – there’s a chain leading down the cliff, to a dock where you can meet him.”

Daud waits for Martin to leave; the Loyalist pauses to grab the unconscious Overseer’s mask and fit it over his own face before making his way out to Clavering. As soon as the door closes, Daud returns his attention to his target.

It turns out his caution may have been unnecessary: slipping past the high fence is surprisingly simple. He has no need to use his powers at all- rather, he climbs a stack of forgotten crates and follows an awning over the gate. If he stays above the street and uses a measure of caution, none of the patrolling Overseers should see him. People seldom look up, and the darkness can only help him remain concealed.

A ledge juts out at the same height as the second storey windows, spanning the exterior of the building. He transverses to the nearest streetlamp, crouching warily on the rain-slick surface; while a fall from this height wouldn’t be fatal, it would be a serious inconvenience and bring the nearby Overseers running. His next transversal takes him to the ledge, and he creeps along it carefully.

The first open window he finds leads to a brightly lit hallway. He checks the nearest room and tenses when he sees it’s for interrogation. After a long moment spent staring at the disturbingly familiar chair below the observation deck, he turns to survey the rest of the room. A brand that can only be the “Heretic’s Brand” that he heard a pair of Overseers discussing near the gate lies on a table, next to the record of a past interrogation.

The brand could be useful; he tucks it into his belt and sets off again. The ornate light fixtures and exposed vents make for relatively easy passage along the halls.

He pauses to disable an alarm system and barely makes it back onto the vents in time before a patrolling Overseer rounds the corner. But the man gives no sign that he noticed anything, so Daud breathes a little easier and continues on his way.

The third room he tries ends up being the meeting room. Campbell’s voice is muffled but no less audible through a door leading to another hall.

Daud glances around the room, which is empty- for the moment. Two of the three doors lead to the hallway he’d been following before; the third leads to Campbell and Curnow. There’s a rune fastened to the wall above the hearth, which he spares a moment to grab and tuck away – glad to find that this one doesn’t prompt an appearance from the Outsider.

Callista said Campbell meant to poison her uncle; when Campbell mentions drinks, Daud remembers the tray set for two that he’d glimpsed in a cursory scan of the room. After a moment’s hesitation, he transverses over and destroys the bottle of wine. The individual glasses were probably poisoned, but there’s no way to know which Campbell would give to Curnow.

Campbell finds the key as Daud returns to his previous position on the vent. He considers his options as the pair enters the room, Campbell shutting the doors behind them. When the High Overseer stiffens at the sight of the ruined bottle, Daud shoots him with a sleep dart; time freezes as he turns over the choices, then resumes as he appears behind Curnow.

Daud claps his hand over Curnow’s mouth, the other clamping around Curnow’s wrist to prevent him from going for a blade. “Listen carefully, Captain Curnow,” he says, as Campbell slumps to the floor. “Campbell meant to poison you. I’ve just saved your life. And if that’s not enough motivation, consider that I know where your niece, Callista, is: if you try to turn me in, I’ll kill her instead.”

Curnow tenses even further, but after a moment he gives a hesitant nod, as much as Daud’s grip on the lower half of his face allows.

“I’m letting you go. Say that your meeting with Campbell was over, or make some other excuse. I don’t care what. Forget that you ever knew I was here.”

Another jerky nod. Daud releases him and takes two steps back, pulling out his crossbow once more. He’ll knock Curnow out if he needs to, but he’d rather avoid it. Who knows what the Overseers might do to him unconscious?

“Where is she,” Curnow says, turning. He blinks in astonishment at what, Daud supposes, must be an extremely strange figure. The industrial mask adds a nice touch.

“Safe,” Daud admits before he can think better of it – he knows how he feels about Emily’s disappearance; Curnow must feel the same. More gruffly, he adds, “As long as you keep your mouth shut.” When Curnow just looks at him searchingly, Daud snaps, “Now get out of here.”

Curnow stares at him for a moment longer, then turns and makes for the far door. He exits the room without another word, shutting the door behind himself with a quiet click. Daud lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and turns to Campbell. A brief search of his unconscious form produces an unassuming black book; flipping through it reveals complete gibberish. The pages are coded, of course.

Daud doesn’t have time to decipher it.

The interrogation room it is.

* * *

“I don’t _know_ ,” Campbell howls, his voice echoing around the vast space. Daud’s gaze darts to the three points of entry - all barricaded, with varying degrees of competence - but no patrolling Overseers seem to have caught on yet.

The sweat pooling beneath his collar is not entirely due to the exertion of sneaking into the Office and spiriting Campbell here, but Daud deliberately does not think about how this room resembles another in which he spent far too much time over the past six months.

Daud turns the brand over in his hands, feigning patience that he no longer has. “Cut the shit, Campbell,” he says. “I know you’re behind the Empress’ murder and this book-” he lifts the notebook out of his pocket, gratified by the wide-eyed panic this causes, “-will tell me all of that, and more. But I’m not inclined to wait to decode this, so you can tell me where Emily is, _now_ , or I’ll be making use of some of these well-loved tools.” He gestures to the tray of implements nearby. “I’ve had a lot of firsthand experience with them.”

“ _Help_ ,” Campbell screams, the word dissolving into a cough when Daud punches him in the throat.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t Emily’s location,” Daud says, and pointedly turns to the torture devices. He makes a show of looking the tray over, gloved fingers playing over various tools before settling on a pair of pliers, rusty and stained with blood from past use.

“I don’t know, I swear!” Campbell jerks futilely in the restraints, his breath coming in fast, helpless pants. His eyes are riveted on Daud’s hand, darting rapidly from the brand to the pliers, as if he cannot decide which would be worse, as if he doesn’t realize that Daud has no intention of leaving him alive. “ _I don’t know_! Burrows- damn the man- thought the Raven could be trusted! He took the girl, I don’t know where, his base? He ignored our messages and we haven’t heard anything from him since!”

Daud sneers behind the industrial mask that Piero had modified for him.

Six months ago, he would have thought the Raven a figure of myth – impossible, for one man to have pulled off the sheer volume of assassinations attributed to his name. After his own experience, however – watching in mute, helpless horror as his own body worked against him and killed Jessamine, then seeing a masked man with the Outsider’s mark on his hand briefly appear only to steal Emily away – he knows most, if not all, of the ridiculous feats attributed to the man were real.

“Where is his base?”

“I don’t-” Daud carelessly tosses the pliers aside; the clatter of them hitting the floor is drowned out by Campbell’s howls as Daud seizes two of his fingers and bends them _back_. The satisfying crack that ensues is just audible; Daud realizes he’s smiling, then decides it doesn’t matter. Campbell can’t see it anyway.

He leans forward when Campbell’s cries soften to harsh, pained breathing.

“You mean to tell me,” Daud snarls, right in his face, “that the _Abbey of the Everyman_ has no idea where to even look for the most notorious heretic Dunwall has ever seen?”

Campbell opens his mouth, but sudden pounding on the barricaded door beyond the bars interrupts him.

“ _Open this door immediately_ ,” someone orders.

“You won’t escape here alive,” Campbell says, something like triumph brimming beneath the pain on his face.

Daud scoffs as he straightens. “You’ll die before I do, if you don’t tell me.”

Campbell laughs in his face.

Daud brands him out of sheer spite, his teeth bared in a savage grin behind the mask as Campbell howls. He slits the Overseer’s throat for good measure, then slips through the bars and transverses up to the window above the door.

A trio of Overseers is intent on breaking down the door; Daud keeps moving, blinking through the library, then to the meeting room, then through the window, back out into the rain.

He’s halfway across the backyard, ghosting across rooftops and using transversals to cross the distances he can’t jump, when the alarm goes up. The patrolling Overseers and their hounds head for the main building, and Daud keeps moving towards the river.

Samuel nods at Daud, a look of barely concealed relief on his face, when he drops down from the chain. “Best be off, then,” he says, dropping his cigarette and snuffing the butt beneath his heel. “Before they think to look here.”

Daud nods his agreement and climbs into the boat; they’re off a moment later.


End file.
